


The Expenses of Trust

by tristesses



Category: Star Trek (2009)
Genre: Bloodplay, F/F, Fear Play, Knifeplay, Mirror Universe
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-01-03
Updated: 2012-01-03
Packaged: 2017-10-28 20:48:49
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,754
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/312045
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tristesses/pseuds/tristesses
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Politics, sex, and violence typically end up in the same bed when played out in the Terran Empire.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Expenses of Trust

**Author's Note:**

> Written on 6/18/2010 for the Kink Bingo prompt "blades". Title is vaguely taken from a quote by Emerson. The word _j'hordak_ , according to Memory Beta, means shadow or hanger-on, politically speaking; a _caj_ is a formal Orion merchant clan.

"There are two ways we can do this, Gaila," says Uhura. She doesn't smile, but she's leaned back in her chair far enough to call it a sprawl, one sleek leg slung across the table, insouciant. She steeples her fingers thoughtfully, looking for all the worlds like the thrice-damned Vulcan she ruts with; Gaila can smell him on her, lingering like the scent of a mildewed hut. "Either you can take my offer now - and I'm giving you the choice to refuse, you know. I respect you enough for that, even if you _do_ owe me - "

"That stinks like sehlat-shit," snaps Gaila; Uhura is baiting her, lording her power over Gaila. Behaving like they are comrades-in-arms, calling Gaila by the name her first-mother gave her without permission, as if she were a slave and not a freedwoman - anyone else would be dead for her presumption, and no fuss made of it; the insult is unbearable. But this is the gift a higher rank and better weapons bestow upon a woman: protection. Gaila bares her teeth anyway, sharp, too sharp, and is gratified to see Uhura's eyes flinch away from her mouth. "You seek to gain my favor because you _need_ me, not because you respect me. An Orion, loyal, is a dangerous commodity," and here she smirks, "and if you can shape me into a weapon I would be the most fearsome one on the ship. No man immune to me but yours, and no woman who can come near me unharmed. It would cut down on your work considerably, if you sought to take control of the ship. _Lieutenant_."

Uhura's mouth quirks, but she doesn't dismiss the charge of treason. Instead, she says, "Either you can take my offer, Gaila, or remain _j'hordak_ the rest of your life - "

"I am no _j'hordak_ , my _caj_ traces its lineage back to the Book of Tears," snarls Gaila, but Uhura keeps speaking, low and cutting.

"It doesn't matter much to me. There are other Orions, less proud than you, who'd be glad to assist us."

Gaila is silent. That is true; she may have the technological expertise to rival a Vulcan's, and she may be the most readily available Orion in the sector, but for their purposes they only need a brute.

"What is in it for me?" she asks eventually, careful to keep any emotion out of her voice, expression closed in a still mask.

Uhura hesitates, unexpectedly. Gaila tilts her head, inquisitive, and her nostrils flare when she inhales: anxiety in Uhura's sweat, fear and adrenaline. The atmosphere of the room palpably shifts. When Uhura speaks, it's in the sibilant, voluptuous syllables of High Orion, a language ancient enough (and uncommon enough) to not be in the universal translator's database.

"A change is coming," she says, and the tightly-contained passion in her voice is enough to make Gaila lean closer, intrigued. "A shift in the balance of powers, from an empire to a republic. We are close; we have infiltrated the highest ranks of the Imperial Starfleet, and now the flagship itself. All we need is to establish control of the _Enterprise_ , and to do that, we require your particular talents." A pause. "Will you help us?"

"So you do need me," Gaila says, contemplatively, and folds her arms; she has to wonder how desperate the Resistance is, to allow one of its agents to openly confide in a non-aligned crewman. But desperation couldn't have taken them this far; Uhura wasn't lying when she said they were close. The all-powerful _Enterprise_ , the most highly weaponized ship in the 'Fleet, in the control of the Resistance...well. It's a thought to be pondered, certainly.

Gaila lets the silence drag on, until Uhura's calm is beginning to crack, and then says, quietly, "I do not trust you."

"No? I saved your life."

"That means nothing, except to emphasize your stupidity. What sort of idiot ensign risks the agony booth and demotion to rescue a slave?"

"One who knows how valuable that slave may be." Uhura catches her gaze and holds it. "What sort of idiot slave runs away with an agonizer-wielding member of Starfleet?"

She has a point.

Gaila licks her lips, and calculates. Uhura watches.

"If I agree, I am trusting you with my life, again," she says, constructing a plan. "What do you have to lose? If it comes down to your word versus mine, well; the word of a decorated lieutenant will always crush that of a no-rank whore." She spits the words out; the taste they leave in her mouth is dank, but they are hardly things she hasn't heard before.

"I'll prove it to you," Uhura says. "Tonight, in my quarters, at 2300. If you give me your word you'll join us."

"You'll prove it to me, _then_ I'll give you my word." Gaila's smile is twisted; Uhura's clever, trying to pull one over on her like that. "Those are my terms."

"Agreed," Uhura says. "2300?"

"So it seems."

"Very well." And with that, Uhura snaps back into rank, no longer begging, and Gaila is again just a crewman; Uhura levels an icy gaze at her, and says coldly, "Dismissed."

Gaila flicks her tongue at her, both a come-on and the Orion equivalent of a bow, and leaves Uhura to her thoughts. She has her own to consider.

 ****

. . .

For all their similarities to Orion physiology, humans are strangely fragile. They are delicate, covered in the lightest fuzz; they tear easily and heal slowly. Unlike Gaila's tough, fibrous skin, Uhura's will bruise when grabbed too hard, and her bones will break, not bend; her body is not made for hard labor or hard pleasure. Gaila is entranced, marking Uhura's delicate thighs with her teeth, gripping her ankles until Uhura whines just under her breath, the slightest sound of pain. The ties that pin Uhura spread-eagled on the bed are taut leather, good quality, and the blindfold soft linen, dark grey in color. The gag Gaila removes, her mouth watering in sympathy and not a little disgust; it brings bad memories. All in all, though, Uhura makes a pretty picture, and a willing one, if silent; Gaila can smell it, lust wet and heavy in her nose.

 

"I could kill you, you know," Gaila says pleasantly in High Orion, tugging down the red fabric of Uhura's top to bare her breasts, squeezing them; she runs her thumb over those nipples, dark and pointed, and pinches them. "It would be easy; I know where you keep your knife." Here, secured on her upper thigh, long and slender, easily hidden by her skirt. Gaila unsheathes it and holds it up to the light; it's plain but of excellent quality, the hilt firm and good to grip, the blade of Romulan steel and devastatingly sharp. "Do you think I won't?"

"No," Uhura says, her voice very, very quiet.

"No?"

"No, I don't think you'll kill me."

"You have a lot of faith in me." Uhura's skirt rips easily, or at least it does when encouraged by the knife. Gaila rests the flat side of the blade on Uhura's bare stomach, parallel with the waistline of her red underwear. "Too much." The blade is chill, not even close to body temperature; Uhura must have only just put it on. Gaila inhales, takes in the scent of Uhura's fear, potent and sharp, and of her desire, musky and dark. She lowers the blade, slips it under the waistband, and tilts the knife just barely; it slices through the fabric neatly, and leaves a line of welling red on Uhura's skin. Uhura's exhale is almost a sob; she's trembling, but not fighting it. Gaila nearly moans herself; the concept is tantalizing, but reality is even better: willing submission, the twitch of her hips, Uhura is hers, at least for now, and Gaila loves it.

She draws the very point of the blade up Uhura's torso, and moves to straddle her. Uhura's breathing is ragged, her body tense, so tense; Gaila uses her free hand to pinch Uhura's nipples again, then leans down and sucks at one, until Uhura sighs a tremulous, shuddering moan and arches her back. The knife slips, and opens a thin crimson slash arcing diagonally to Uhura's ribs.

"Oh," Uhura says, and bites her lip, the only sign she noticed the pain at all.

Gaila reaches down and rubs her knuckle against the damp of Uhura's sex; Uhura jerks at the touch, straining at her bonds, and Gaila takes a moment to admire the red stain on the blade, held close against her dark skin. Lovely, truly lovely; and when she thrusts her fingers inside Uhura, rough, thumb on her clit and hand on the hilt of the knife, she watches not Uhura's face, caught in a grimace of pleasure, but the twisting muscle of her sweat-soaked abdomen, the gleam of the blade, the perverse thought of how easy it would be to turn the knife and stab, leave Uhura bleeding out on the bed - _this_ is what you get for your trust in this world, little lieutenant, _this_ is the reality of your resistance - and she could do it, too, without Uhura making a noise. Gaila has much practice in the art of murder; it's the best survival strategy in the Syndicate.

But she doesn't, doesn't cut through the layers of fat and muscle to Uhura's tender innards, doesn't leave her with her ribs splayed and organs drying in the air, a traditional killing; instead, she hooks her fingers inside Uhura and the other woman comes hard, contracting around her fingers, hissing through her teeth, pulling her bonds taut. Gaila waits patiently until Uhura has relaxed, her own body thrumming in response, and licks Uhura's come off her fingers; but she won't take care of herself now, not here. Orgasm is a vulnerability she shares with precious few, and Uhura is not included among them. Later, perhaps, if things go as planned.

Gaila sets the knife down on Uhura's belly, where she can't get to it at all, and leans close; Uhura is gasping a little, and shaking, but Gaila's murmur is clear:

"I'll help you."

"Thank you," Uhura whispers, hoarse and triumphant, but Gaila ignores her; to say anything else would be to give too much away. Trust is one thing, but friendship...that is quite different.

Perhaps someday - but no. Gaila can't pin her hopes on a falsehood, however much she wants to.

Perhaps she can think about it. A fantasy, nothing else.


End file.
